Indelible
by Shinigami Yumi
Summary: [Yamato/Hibiki, Devil Survivor 2, AU] Hibiki is a master of irezumi — traditional Japanese tattoos inked by hand instead of needle gun. Yamato is the soon-to-be leader of a powerful Yakuza group. As per tradition, Yamato goes to get his full body suit...only to discover that the process of being tattooed turns him on. Needless to say, Hibiki finds that incredibly sexy.


I know, I know. Not the update you wanted. And I could make an excuse like, "I really wanted to try something from Yamato's perspective!" But no, I was just distracted by looking at irezumi designs and thinking of how gorgeous Yamato would be with a dragon tattoo. I hope you agree.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Devil Survivor 2. I make no money from this. This story is not meant to be construed as an accurate representation of irezumi and/or Yakuza culture. I did some research, of course, but fiction is oft more beautiful or exciting than reality.

* * *

 **Indelible**

There was never any question of whether I would be tattooed, only with what and when. It is the Hotsuin way.

Even though I turned our businesses around and restored our economic power like my father only tried to do for years, I still cannot command the obedience he does simply by rolling up a sleeve. It's a bizarre social more to never have your ability taken seriously until your skin is steeped in ink, yet I admit there is an allure to irezumi. Seeing the intricate designs carved into the people around me, I can respect the artistry, and I can hardly dispute that pain builds character.

I will turn eighteen soon, so my father takes me to visit the artist he and some of his confidants went to, only to find that the man has retired. Horitora will finish his last two works within the next three months and will not accept new clients. He does, however, have a successor whom he vouches for highly. The protégé lives in Tokyo because he received a scholarship to Tokyo University of the Arts after completing his training and would not pass up the opportunity to increase his knowledge.

Too busy to accept clients while studying full-time, he instead designed everything from book covers to bedding under another pseudonym, Byakko, and looking up White Tiger Designs yields page after page of beautiful pictures accompanied by glowing reviews. Even now that he's taking irezumi clients, he still accepts small design projects on the side, and White Tiger Designs has an address in Shinjuku.

I don't need the six bodyguards my father sends with me to the nondescript three-storey shop lot in the less expensive side of Shinjuku, but arguing that I am fully capable of taking care of myself isn't worth my time. I hear the cheerful greeting when one of them opens the door, but am still surprised to see a dark-haired youth around my age behind the counter when I follow them in.

Striking blue eyes immediately find mine, and I see my surprise is shared. I don't like to beat around the bush, so I simply state my business. "I'm looking for Horijiro-sensei."

The shopkeeper's smile warms. "Look no further."

What a surprise… "You are younger than I expected."

"I could say the same about you," he quips instantly, and it's inexplicably amusing.

"Hahaha… Is that so…? You hardly acted like you were expecting me at all."

It seems to be the right response — the warmth reaches his eyes, and he circles the counter to step closer. He's wearing a white parka over plain turquoise pants.

"Your work is marvelous," I continue honestly as I scan the pieces displayed on the walls. "To be of such renown in both worlds so quickly… impressive."

"Thank you." He waits as I continue to look around, then adds, "Well, I should probably invite you upstairs," flipping the sign on the front door to "closed" as he indicates the stairs. "Mister…?"

"Hotsuin. Hotsuin Yamato."

The guards remain by the door while I follow him silently up the stairs and note the long attachments to the hood of his parka trailing behind him as he walks — they look like very elongated rabbit ears. Judging by the layout and equipment, the second floor is his tattoo studio, and I politely follow his lead, removing my shoes before I enter. He shows me to a chair in a small room — the walls are covered in framed photographs and prints of irezumi designs, and there is a stack of books and albums on the small table.

I pick an album up to start flipping through as he removes his parka to reveal a turquoise and white turtleneck and takes a seat across from me, then realize that I recognise a few. "I see you have done a few of my subordinates."

"Doing," he corrects softly, looking at the one I've paused at — a close up of a back piece with a dragon in the centre, my family's emblem incorporated into our group's logos and symbols. "It takes up to several years to complete a body suit. I photographed these close-ups for my personal record as I completed them, but the full suit… the one I'm closest to completing will take another month."

I cannot help but smile as I find more photographs and drawings of dragons — they are consistently beautiful with meticulous attention to detail. "My father went to your master," I murmur by way of introduction as we stand.

He grins as I set the album down to follow him to the adjoining tatami room. "Unfortunately, Horitora-sensei retired before you stopped growing?"

I sit on the futon. "I do not consider it unfortunate."

Our eyes meet again — he seems puzzled by my meaning.

"I understand Horitora-sensei would have turned me away for my lack of deference."

It's true that expressing it does not come easily to me — I am belittled enough even in a position of authority. Indeed I overheard my father apologising profusely in advance to Horitora for my less than perfect manners before he learned that the man had retired.

Horijiro chuckles as he goes into the back room to prepare, and I hear the sound of water running into a basin. "Likely so. He's none too pleased that I accept clients who want less than a full body suit either. Honestly, if he adored me any less, he probably would've kicked me out the day I picked up a stylus."

There's something comforting about his laugh and smile, and I let out a small sound of amusement — Horitora was right about my being more at ease here, at least. I suppose the water means I should disrobe, so I begin removing and folding my clothes.

"I thought you might be too busy to see me at all, especially now that your master has stopped taking clients entirely."

"As it happens," he comes out of the back room with a tray in hand, "that will indeed be the case once I start working on you," then stops, almost dropping the tray. "I—I'll have to clean your skin first, yes, but um… we have yet to even properly discuss the design."

He seems… discomfited, and it… cannot be due to my state of undress, surely? In his line of work, he must see plenty of nudity. Perhaps it was inappropriate of me to undress so soon, when we have barely confirmed that he will be accepting me as a client.

"I… was led to understand that it is largely your choice what to draw on me," I say slowly, "and whether to draw at all, of course, although I may make some requests that you could also choose not to entertain."

He takes a deep breath, setting the tray down beside the futon, then going to a cabinet to fetch a clean sheet that he hands to me. So it _is_ the nudity.

"That's largely how it works, it's true, and you could pick out one of the many traditional designs I've drawn, copied or reinterpreted over the years," he says, sitting down as I cover myself. "But look, I'm a teenager too, so even if you tell me you want an ukiyo-e reinterpretation of Totoro, I'll do it."

I blink. "To…to…ro…?" The syllables taste completely foreign.

"N—never mind," he mutters, although he seems appalled. "I mean to say I like new things. I'd be happy to develop a new design with you. Yes, I'll insist on balance and meaning, and of course there are traditions I won't break, but I also won't refuse if, for instance, you want the cast of Mario instead of the Hundred-and-eight Heroes."

Why would I…? "What is Mario?" He's not making any sense.

Horijiro opens his mouth and closes it again, his expression now taking on a hint of dismay. "W—what… do you do in your free time…?"

"Hmph, I have no such thing." My disdain shows plainly, and it occurs to me that I might have given offense. If the sheer respect my father showed Horitora is any indication, Horijiro is already going easy on me. "Well, if you take requests, there _are_ some things I would like…"

Grinning, he grabs a sketchbook and pencil. "All right, let's hear what you want besides a dragon down the middle."

I am relieved that he's not offended, that he's interested in my opinion although his tradition suggests I am merely the canvas for his next great work. He listens attentively, peers at the references on my phone, makes suggestions, and despite claiming to have never heard of some of the more esoteric things I mention, he sketches my descriptions out like he has seen them before or read my mind.

At length, he says, "Okay, I'm thinking, what if we had a peach tree here," and I'm taken by surprise when he reaches around to drag his fingertips lightly down my spine, "and have the dragon coiled around it with the head then coming over your right shoulder here," his hand sweeps over my shoulder to a stop right above my areola, "and the tail coiling down around your left hip and thigh?" He pats my hip lightly through the sheet to indicate, then seems to realize I flinched away from the contact every time. "Sorry, was that too sudden? Did I make you uncomfortable?"

I shake my head. I have always disliked physical contact with strangers, or even with all but the most familiar of people, but I expect we will be touching a lot throughout the process, so it is something I should quickly get used to.

"You should be honest with me," he chides gently, and there is genuine concern in his bright blue eyes. "We'll be spending a lot of time together on this."

"Hahaha… You are very compassionate. Your master also mentioned you have a gentler hand. I don't dislike that," I tell him honestly. "But you need not worry. Mere sentiment will not get in our way."

He makes a complicated expression, and I'm not sure what it means, but continues with, "I'll incorporate the circles, crests and symbols into the details and backgrounds, and we can discuss the rest when that's done…?"

I can see the design in my mind, and I think it's beautiful. I've never thought of a peach tree before, but all the stories of peaches speak of purity, fealty and immortality — all excellent qualities. I bow in agreement. "I did come to seek your expertise, Horijiro-sensei."

With a fond smile, he checks the time. "Well, if you plan on getting started today, you should prepare to stay the night and send your bodyguards home."

A glance at my phone tells me it is quite late, that for the first time in my life, I have lost track of time talking to another person. It is disconcerting, and yet, it doesn't feel a waste of my time. I call one of the men below and inform him that this sitting is expected to last many more hours, so they should leave us. Horijiro excuses himself as they protest, and shortly, I hear him over the phone. He politely explains to one of the others that he has to lock the shop up before he can start working on me, his policy is to never let anyone else in while working on a customer for their privacy, and he cannot be locking six non-customers in regardless. Between us, they are ushered out with a promise to return when he opens at ten tomorrow.

I hear the sound of metal shutters being lowered as he returns with a warm smile. "Shall we begin then?" I nod, and he dips his fingers in the water. "Please lie face down, Mister Hotsuin. I'll try to finish the outline on your back tonight." When I acquiesce, he arranges the sheet around me, then begins wiping my back with a damp washcloth in gentle downward strokes. "Is the temperature comfortable?"

"Yes." In fact, it's perfectly tepid, as if he had known exactly how long we would converse before he filled the basin.

Then he's lathering a foamy soap over my skin in small circles, and I try to think of him as a kind of doctor — the only strangers I endure physical contact with.

"I started my training really young," he says conversationally, perhaps in an effort to distract me as his fingertips travel down my spine. "So I couldn't practice any big pieces on myself until a few years back." Out of the blue, he puts some strength into it, rubs his way back up like a massage, and it's easier to imagine he's like the shiatsu master that treats me sometimes. "Instead, I did small ones in many places, then modified them if they stretched and linked them up when I stopped growing. It wasn't long before I ran out of places I could reach with my right hand, so I was forced to practice with my left hand too."

I don't know why it didn't occur to me that he would be covered in tattoos himself —I suppose he doesn't look the type— but as he wipes all the soap off with a soft washcloth, I ask, "Would you show me yours? I'd like to see the ones you drew with your left hand." I find my curiosity piqued by his mention of it.

"Oh. Yeah. Sure."

I turn to look as he removes his turtleneck and notice for the first time that he's rather attractive. His jet black hair falls in short waves to frame a handsome face with the most striking blue eyes — all eye-catching contrasts. He's not especially muscular, but his body is slim and well-toned, his fair skin covered in intricate designs, and I find my gaze tracing them — flowers, deities, heroes, mythical creatures, poetry, embellishments and all.

"Even with your left hand," which I assume is how he drew on his right arm, "I can see you're very skilled." The difference is almost unnoticeable.

"Hah, if only you knew how many more months this side took!" A wave of his right arm confirms my assumption.

I cannot help but think that modesty suits him ill. "Still, you have my admiration."

He smiles, and I find myself mirroring it. Turning, he says, "My master drew this one." His back piece is a white tiger surrounded by lotus flowers, one front paw on his left shoulder and one hind paw extended down towards his right thigh as if ascending his back, and the style is slightly different. "Byakko was his nickname for me growing up."

"It suits you."

"Thank you." He picks up a pen and turns back to face me. "I'm going to finalise the design on your back before I go over it with the needles, so perhaps you'd like to sit up? I mean, the alternative is me straddling your hips, which you might find awkward."

Oddly, now that I've adjusted, the idea doesn't bother me as much as I expected. "Which will produce the best result?"

"For a consistent comfortable working angle, admittedly the latter," he confesses sheepishly.

"Then do it," I tell him, and he seems taken aback.

"Uh… o—okay." Tentatively, he kneels astride my hips to start drawing with the felt-tip pen. "L—let me know if it gets uncomfortable."

Well, it's not uncomfortable per se, just… warm and a little ticklish wherever the pen brushes over my skin. But as he draws, he leans down, shifts closer, and I realize where we're touching, and it's… awkward —he put it aptly— and I… don't know whether it would be more awkward to mention it or otherwise. I decide to focus on slowing my racing pulse.

"Um… is it too warm in here?" Horijiro asks after several minutes. "Do you need me to adjust the thermostat? Or get you a glass of water? Your skin is getting quite flushed."

Well, I _am_ rather thirsty, yes. "A glass of water would be appreciated."

"All right." He stands and goes to the other room.

I shift to free an arm and feel hyper-aware of the sheets on my skin. I hear the beep of him adjusting the air-conditioning before he approaches me with a glass in hand. For a moment, I contemplate the possibility of poison, then realise that he has nothing to gain. I down the cool water in one gulp, and he pats away my perspiration with a soft, dry cloth. Then he takes the empty glass from me and licks his lips before asking if I'd like another.

"Not just yet, thank you."

"Then let us continue?"

I nod and settle back down. He returns to his position and resumes drawing, shifting down to straddle my thighs as the drawing continues to my lower back. It doesn't feel like he's adjusted the temperature at all. My only reprieve is the occasional dab of the alcohol swabs he uses to make corrections. I'm not sure how much time passes before he pronounces it done.

"What do you think?" he asks unexpectedly, indicating a mirror, and I bring the sheet with me while he holds a smaller mirror up, so I can see my back in the reflection.

"It's beautiful," I tell him honestly, better even than I imagined, but more than that, I'm pleased that he genuinely cares what I think of an artwork I will wear for life. "Will you be able to complete the outline tonight?"

Horijiro checks the time. "It's almost ten. I might be. Shall we get started?"

I return to the futon while he prepares the ink and needles. I'm less surprised that he returns to the previous position than to find I don't dislike the contact.

"I hope you're comfortable," he says, "as this will take several hours, and it's best if you move as little as possible."

Taking heed, I adjust the pillow to find the most comfortable position that I can before settling in. He begins, and I repress the reflex to wince as the needle pierces my skin. It's not terribly painful though, and I get used to the sensation soon enough — it starts to feel less like pain and more like a thrum over my nerves… a thrum that goes down and stirs a strange sensation in my belly. He pauses, reaches for a clean cloth to pat away sweat —and maybe a bit of blood— and I have to bite back a gasp — the motion presses me into the futon, and the slight friction feels good between my legs.

Belatedly, I realize I'm sexually aroused.

It's an alien sensation.

Naturally, I sometimes wake up erect —I'm told that's normal— but I've never gained an erection from external stimuli before, and I'm relieved to be lying face down — I don't have to explain this strange reaction. Recognising the sensation seems to intensify it, and as he continues to follow his earlier drawing, every shallow prick of the needle is like a little jolt that goes straight down. I close my eyes and think of work — I've done harder things than endure something like this for a few hours.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you here?"

I open my eyes at the sudden question, swallow to moisten my throat and steady my breathing before I answer. "What do you mean?" Conversation is a welcome distraction.

"Well, most of the customers I've met do this for some kind of group conformity, but you don't seem like someone who wants to conform."

I smile — he's surprisingly perceptive. "Oh? What makes you say so?"

"Knowing these traditions, you would almost rather be turned away than change your behaviour. Yet I say 'almost' because your eyes tell me you'd do whatever it takes to achieve your goals… including swallow your pride if you wanted this enough and I were more like Horitora-sensei."

"Very keen of you. Would that more of my subordinates shared your powers of observation."

Horijiro laughs. "Does that mean you won't answer?"

I shake my head. "There are some in our group who do not think highly of me despite my achievements. I must show them that I am not some brainless child riding on my family's coattails."

"By letting me tattoo whatever I want on you?"

I sigh, "People are basically sheep — they never even question nonsensical customs. This rite of passage, it is illogical but expedient. If this brief pain will command their obedience and performance for years to come, I will gladly endure it. As you say, whatever it takes to achieve my goals."

"Heh, anyone of worth would judge you on your achievements, not mine."

"Hahaha! Shrewdly put. People of worth are incredibly difficult to find."

Chuckling, he replies, "I don't think that's true. Maybe you're just looking in the wrong place? Some people are more drawn to certain paths than others, so perhaps what you seek lies elsewhere."

"My, my… Such a sharp tongue you have… I never expected you, of all people, to criticise our way of life, Horijiro-sensei."

"You misunderstand, Mister Hotsuin. I meant no offense. I was only trying to say that worth is a subjective concept. Everyone has their own values, their own basis for judging the worth of someone or something. It is only natural for people who share similar values to flock together and that people with different values prefer different activities. If you can't find anyone that you deem worthy around you, then it may be that your values don't match those of the people around you now. Thus, you should look outside your current circle to find the people you seek."

"Yet you said that anyone of worth would judge me on my own merits, not the art you are creating on my skin."

"Indeed. By _my_ values, a person of worth would be able to discern true merit and how best to apply it, disregarding its circumstances and its form. Whether you are young or old, rich or poor, male or female; whether your vocation is math, construction or art, talent is talent. To only recognize and employ talents in business that come in a rich and beautiful male form, for instance, would be a massive waste of human potential."

"I agree. Why should your age or social status matter as long as you can produce results in your chosen field?"

"Hah. Well, I wasn't within your existing social circle, so there you have it: we have found each other."

-INDELIBLE-

I may have underestimated the length of a few hours. Horijiro is unexpectedly intelligent and opinionated, and I am enjoying our intermittent debates, but it's not long before even the interesting conversation fails to distract from the increasingly insistent throbbing in my groin. I think I may be leaking onto his sheets, which means he will find out about my predicament eventually, and I will have to explain… and apologise. I'm quite impressed by his ability to keep working for so long — the motion of his hands has remained quick and consistent throughout.

Suddenly, he sits up and stretches, rocking my hips into the futon, and I silence myself a beat too late.

"Oh!" He immediately moves away. "Sorry. Did I hurt you?"

I shake my head — my voice might be tellingly unsteady if I speak now.

"Do you need a break? The restroom, perhaps?"

The restroom sounds like a good idea, so I nod and move to stand, but as I do, he comes around to help me, and I hear his breath hitch before I can cover myself.

"Oh… You… Uh…"

I sigh, sitting and pulling the sheet around me. "Yes. My apologies." I think my attempt at dignity is passable — I'm only a little breathless. "I did not expect to have such an unseemly reaction to this process, so please pardon my impropriety and excuse me while I—"

He sits before me. "Y—you were turned on by being tattooed…?"

I glare at him. "Must you prolong my indignity?"

"N—no! Of course not. That's n— I mean…" To my surprise, he's the one blushing. "Err… You needn't apologise or be embarrassed about it."

That _is_ comforting, or would be if only he seemed more sincere and less uncomfortable.

"And you need not pretend to accept it for my sake."

"What? No! I— It's not like that at all! It's just…" He looks away. "I… Do you…?" He runs a hand through his hair. "No, never mind. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable about coming back here."

"It's a bit too late for that," I inform him flatly.

"Yeah?" He grins suddenly, turning to me with a fatalistic glint in his eyes. "So I've got nothing to lose? Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Right. So this is really untoward, and my master would kill me if he ever heard about this, but uh… if you need a hand with that, this is me volunteering."

If I need a hand with… oh. He's… offering to engage in sexual activities with me. "Is this something you do often?"

"Of course not!" He looks appalled. "I just said my master would kill me! And I probably wouldn't have any clients if this were a regular occurrence. Not everyone appreciates advances from someone of the same gender, you know."

"So you are offering because you think I would?"

"No, I'm offering because I'm really attracted to you, and you don't strike me as the type to ruin a man's reputation if you have nothing to gain from it."

Once again, I am pleasantly surprised by his insight, and in truth, "The attraction is mutual."

Seventeen years, and he is the only person I have genuinely enjoyed so many hours of conversation with. The world he lives in is so different from my own, but it feels like we understand each other and learned from our differences. I never considered this result, but I cannot say I mind.

"Is that a 'yes'?" he asks, shifting closer with a grin.

I let the sheet fall. "Yes."

To my surprise, he drops forward, and electric pleasure courses through my body before it registers that he's _licking_ me, and—

"H—Hori—"

"Hibiki," he corrects with a wry smile. "That's my real name. Calling me 'sensei' when I'm about to blow you sounds really perverse."

My laugh turns into a breathless moan as he takes me into his mouth, and it's hot, wet and tight. His tongue swirls around me, and I gasp his name, then I'm seeing stars — he swallowed. He pulls off with a final kiss, and I let him guide me to lie on my side.

"Hang on, let me put some healing salve on the sections I've done before you rest." I don't respond, but he goes ahead, spreading it with gentle fingers. "So um… Have you ever…?"

I shake my head. "I never wanted to before… with anyone."

He covers me with the sheet, helps to adjust the pillow under my head. "Would you think me silly if I said that makes me really happy?"

"No," I mumble as my eyes drift shut. "It would make me really happy too."

-INDELIBLE-

News spread quickly that I've begun the long process of receiving a full body suit from Horijiro, and suddenly, everyone wants to see the work in progress. Many of them received theirs from Horitora and are eager to see how the student's work measures up to the master's. I fail to see how this matters — regardless of which artist is better, the fact that they received theirs from one while I will receive mine from the other cannot be altered.

Still, when my father arranges an evening at one of the hot spring resorts we own, I go along because I enjoy hot springs — I assume that's why he chose that setting.

I hear them murmuring even while we shower, but they wait till we are all relaxing comfortably in the hot water before asking for a closer look. I stand and turn obligingly while these brightly coloured men wade closer — I will remain the least decorated amongst them for many more months.

No one would be impolite enough to suggest that the student has surpassed the master, but that no one is even drawing the comparison is perhaps the highest praise. Their lavish compliments seem undiminished by the knowledge of Hibiki's age, and I feel a twinge of bitterness. I wonder if knowing Hibiki's sexual preferences would change their perceptions, but that would be petty, and I can say nothing without implicating myself. In hindsight, I suspect he knew as much, that he only offered because he predicted my acceptance. Perceptive and devious — I respect that.

"It seems you have made quite the impression," my father says at length. "I'm proud, Yamato."

Before I can ask what he means, one of the others exclaims, "To have hidden poetry in the lines, how exquisite!"

"What a fine hand!"

So fine, in fact, that I hadn't noticed it myself. Granted, I've never inspected the artwork quite so closely.

"I could not read it clearly in the mirror," I lie. "Would you read it to me?"

"Virtues are like lotuses — they bloom in even the muddiest water," he answers. "Oh, and: The finest tree is the one which bears the most good fruit every year."

"And here: It is the darkness of the night that makes the plum blossoms' colours vivid," reads another.

"Look, here's another one: Flowers that bloom early are no less beautiful than those that bloom late," says the third.

Instantly, I regret even the thought of exposing my lover's secrets. Appreciating the almost three-dimensional beauty of his art, I missed the beauty of his intention — he must have embedded these words, knowing that others would see them, to admonish them after our conversation. Once again, I am impressed by his foresight and craftiness.

"Thank you." I settle back into the water. "I must thank Horijiro-sensei for these beautiful words tomorrow."

Everyone else returns to their places in silence, reclining in the water as well.

"I wonder what sort of gift I should bring…"

"His adoptive father might know what he likes. I'll call later to ask," my father offers.

"His adoptive father?"

"Yes. Horijiro-sensei was orphaned in the Chuuetsu Earthquake twelve years ago. Horitora-sensei adopted him because his wife cannot conceive. You wouldn't believe how overjoyed he was to find that the boy is an art prodigy. In fact, he wanted to retire earlier, but held it off two years till Horijiro-sensei's graduation."

I think of our last sitting when he outlined the dragon's head over my shoulder, then added a lotus blossom around my nipple. I had not realized how sensitive that area was until the prick of the needle and the brush of his fingers had me leaking on the verge of orgasm. Then he set his implements down, leaned forward to suck on the other nipple, and I spilled at the first stroke of his hand. He pulled me into an embrace then, smelling of sweet woods and fresh citrus, and when I caught my breath, tenderly wiped me down. Like the first time, he showed no desire for reciprocation, but I suspect he's just waiting for me to express interest, for me to be ready for something more.

I want to, I think.

Tomorrow night, when he completes the dragon's tail around my thigh, I'll offer.

-INDELIBLE-

As it turns out, Hibiki isn't even particularly fancy. Some people like precious artifacts or fine clothes, some like fine wine or prized herbs… he just likes sweets. So I have my subordinates determine the best sweet shop in the region and buy him an assortment before going to see him.

His eyes light up when he sees the yatsuhashi. "Thank you," he says as he locks the shop. "It's sweet of you to ask my master what I like before buying a gift."

I am unsurprised that he knows, but I still ask, "Could it not have been a lucky guess?"

Chuckling, he takes my hand to lead me upstairs. "Are you the type for lucky guesses?"

He knows me too well, and from only two long conversations. I wonder what I know about him, if I could predict his behaviour as well as he does mine. This time, he helps me undress — it's not the nudity that bothered him, I realize, but how much he wanted to do something about it.

"Thank you," I counter, reaching for the buttons on his shirt. "It's sweet of you to hide such beautiful words in the lines."

He covers my hands with his own to stop me. "The sweets are more than enough for that."

"Is this unwelcome?"

"No, of course not. But you shouldn't do it to thank me."

I frown. "What foolishness, Hibiki… I told you before — the attraction is mutual."

Blue eyes widen briefly, then he leans close. "May I…?"

I cannot understand why he needs my permission for a kiss after all we've done, so I impatiently press my lips to his. His hands fly to my jaw to slow me down, stroke my cheek as he licks into my mouth, and I realize then that I know absolutely nothing about this. It is strangely intimate, the sensual slide of his tongue along mine, the arm that drops to wrap around my waist, the tender caress of his soft lips on my own — so different from the intense pleasure of our prior encounters. He lets me unbutton his shirt and moans as I pull him flush with my hands in his back pockets — he's aroused this time, and the reason our previous interludes were so one-sided dawns on me: the stimuli he needs is so different.

This works perfectly though.

We part — he's breathless, and he keeps his forehead pressed to mine like he cannot bear to let me go. When I tug at his pants, he obligingly discards the rest of his clothes.

"Which should we do first," I muse as I lead him to the futon, "the tattoo or the sex?"

Hibiki laughs as we lie down, legs intertwined. "How about…" He rolls my left nipple teasingly between his thumb and forefinger, and that's all it takes to send my blood rushing down. "We make love here, then I finish outlining that dragon, then we go up to my room and make love again?"

As always, I like the way he thinks.

-INDELIBLE-

Days pass, and I count them down eagerly to my next weekly sitting. I tell the few who notice that I want to see the complete work as soon as possible, and those who have seen any part of it nod in understanding and agreement — as Hibiki adds detail, colour and texture, the piece grows more and more beautiful. Each time I visit a community hot spring or bathhouse, I am asked to introduce someone to my artist, and Hibiki says he has a waiting list now that he expects will take years to get through.

With every sitting, we learn more about each other. He finds every erogenous point on my body, shows me his books and video games; I share my thoughts on his new designs if he asks for them and learn how to please him in return. I enjoy our passion, but more than that, I enjoy his company and authenticity. He never goes out of his way to tidy his apartment or cook a lavish dinner to fake perfection like most would. Instead, he cooks soba noodles in hot broth for breakfast with whatever vegetables he has in the fridge, then drops by the convenience store around the corner to get us fried chicken to go with it. His apartment on the third floor is clean, but a bit cluttered, and he never apologises for what little mess there is. Tonight, we are feeling peckish, so he headed out to buy us late night snacks.

"This is probably better in Osaka, but this stall is pretty good," he says, coming back in. "And I couldn't resist getting some pudding on the way back, so I bought some oden while I was at it."

I stare bemusedly at the assortment of food he's brought back — I recognize the stew and the skewers from social drinking nights, but I have never seen the tray of balls covered in two kinds of sauce and a mix of garnishing before. They don't look very appetising.

"Are these… carbohydrates?" They appear to be made of some type of flour.

He almost drops his skewer. "You live in Osaka, and you've never seen takoyaki?"

"This is the only night of the week I don't spend working," I remind him. I consider social drinking nights work too — I find them frivolous and dreary, but I am still obligated to go.

"Well, try it." He presses a pair of bamboo chopsticks into my hands. "It's really good."

Hesitantly, I take one while he watches expectantly, and it's…weird. I'm not too fond of the sauce combination. But then I bite in. The marinated octopus accentuated by the batter's delicate fragrance, the hint of crunch and spice — suddenly, the mixture of sauces and garnishing is perfect.

It's exquisite.

Blue eyes shine with delight as I take another, then another, then finish the entire tray, bar the one I glowered at him for stealing. "You're going back to look for the best takoyaki in Osaka, aren't you?"

I shake my head. "I'm going to _learn_ to make the best takoyaki in Osaka."

"Oh," he sighs dreamily, letting his head fall to my lap. "Now I can't decide what's sexier: you getting turned on while I tattoo you, or you flipping takoyaki in nothing but an apron."

I smirk, tangling my hand in his hair. "I take it that means you only want the chef and not the takoyaki?"

"Don't be mean." He nips at my inner thigh. "I cook for you all the time, and I'm the one who'll have to clean up after."

"I suppose I cannot stop you from taking a few."

"Ah…" He kisses his way up. "You should say," he offers me a piece from his chicken skewer before eating the next piece himself, "only if we feed each other like this."

"No," I tell him as I feed him the other half of a stewed fishcake. "That's a given."

-INDELIBLE-

Whether due to my undertaking the process itself or the proverbs the other leaders read on my back piece, the members seem less patronising and more obedient of late. No matter the reason, I am pleased that work is being accomplished more smoothly. Sometimes, when I mention an issue I'm dealing with, Hibiki suggests interesting solutions, and after several successful implementations, I conclude that he has a knack for understanding how people work and drawing out their strengths.

"Be my right hand," I tell him one day as we lie cuddling on his personal futon. "Your insight is more valuable to me than your art is to your canvases."

He giggles, then gasps in mock horror. "Oh no, are you the kind of psychotic lover that makes people choose: you can only love one, me or your work?"

Despite his teasing melodrama, his answer is clear — he loves his work, and I shouldn't take him from it. It's disappointing, but I respect him. I have nothing to gain by forcing this. Besides, I can hardly call this a waste of his talents when he does it so well.

Still, "What if I am?"

Pecking me on the cheek, he smirks. "Then you will find that I'm the kind of psychotic lover that ties you down, so you can't return to whatever it is you want me to do instead."

My equal, he's saying, not my right hand — I am not the only one with the right to be possessive, and his independence is no less important than my own. I don't disapprove.

"Hmph, counterproductive," I tell him with a sharp nip to his nose. "I'd enjoy that."

"Oh good." He tugs a long, long sash out of the cupboard, a wicked glint in his eyes. "I was afraid you'd say you weren't up for this."

-INDELIBLE-

"Is it true," Hibiki asks as he adds the background to the dragon's tail coiled around my left thigh, "that the Hotsuin family uses magic to maintain your group's power?"

I arch off the futon as he artfully inks a sigil into my inner thigh. "Where did you hear that?"

"Around. It's a fairly popular rumour."

Sheep, I remind myself; only sheep would put any stock in such nonsense. "Do you believe it?"

"What, that magic is real?" He stops to mouth at my erection, and I gasp as I almost climax — I was halfway there by the time he started because the tease wanted to try this with a plug inside me. "Not until you first kissed me. That was such a magical moment."

I cannot decide whether my groan is one of complaint —he has ceased his attentions— or exasperation — he can be so maudlin. "Did you mention it just so you could say that?"

"Not at all." He adds another line. "It came to mind because you want all these arcane symbols on you."

I don't entirely believe him, but it is inconsequential. Hooking my other leg around him impatiently, I tell him, "At this moment, all I want on me is you."

His breath hitches, but he only continues his work. "We'll never finish this if you keep talking like that."

I whine his name, clenching around silicone — the pressure is almost too much, yet not enough.

"Just let me finish this one," he moans, etching colour into the blank space between two symbols. "Yamato, I want—"

"Yes." I think I know. "Yes, just hurry."

Minutes pass, agonisingly slow, as the needles feather —tantalising— over my skin. Then finally, finally, he sets his things aside and pulls the plug out. A whimper escapes me as he tests the stretch, then he's slicking the way and pressing in, and I cannot decide which is more intense — the pleasure or the pain.

"H—Hibiki…"

Blue eyes flick up to mine, and he looks utterly wrecked. "Yamato, please…"

He doesn't finish, just kisses me as he starts moving, and I need— I wrap my limbs around him to pull him deeper as I cry out. I'm almost—

" _A—ahh!_ "

It takes me by surprise when he spills, searing white-hot pleasure through my system. He slumps into me, and we've caught our breath before I remember to let go.

"Don't," he mumbles, nuzzling my neck and tightening his embrace as we close our eyes to sleep. "Don't ever let me go."

-INDELIBLE-

Although we are a criminal organisation, very few deals end up like this — almost everyone else dead while I run through Tokyo to reach a safe area before either my pursuers catch me or I lose consciousness. There are many factors that can complicate the trade of contraband, and one would think that people in the same business would have a firm grasp of this reality, but no, tempers flared when they refused to accept or even compromise on the new terms, and I cannot even be certain which side fired the first shot, not that we can admit to it even if we had. I would be lying dead in the same meeting room had Sako not pulled me out the door exactly when she did — the bullet hit the far side of my left shoulder instead of somewhere more vital. We split up to shake off pursuit, so I hope she makes it — few women make it to her rank in our community, clear recognition of her talent and reliability.

I sense no one following nearby, but I cannot stop — they must still be on our trail. They will attempt to ensure neither of us can report what transpired, so their group's version of events will be taken at face value. I cannot allow them to catch up. As I keep moving, opting for stealth instead of speed to recover my stamina now that I've gained some distance on them, I round the corner to a familiar sight — all the running has taken me to Hibiki's side of Shinjuku.

Leaning against a wall, I pause to catch my breath and assess my situation. The bleeding is slow, but I don't think it has stopped. I could call home, but the nearest safe extraction point is on the other, busier side of Shinjuku. On the other hand, Hibiki should be with a customer at this time — he never lets anyone in when he is working on a customer. Still, I make my way to his shop, fishing out my cellphone — at any rate, his street is better than these deserted alleys.

"Hey, is this about tomorrow?" he opens cheerfully on the second ring. "Please excuse me," I hear from further away. "It'll only be a few minutes." Back to me, he says, "Sorry, I'm with a customer," as his studio door clicks shut.

Steadying my voice, I reply, "I know."

"Then I trust this is urgent, and you'll be brief."

"Yes." I check that the coast is clear before turning onto the street behind Hibiki's shop. "I'm outside your back door."

"What?!" His voice drops to a hiss. "You know I don't let anyone in when I'm with a customer."

"Yes." I bite my lip, then press on. "I'm asking you to make an exception."

"I—"

"Please."

He falls silent, and I wonder if saying it's an emergency will make a difference. In truth, this endangers him and his career — places like his shop are left out of community politics because they serve members of multiple groups, but only as long as they maintain complete privacy and neutrality. Being found sheltering me from another group in an obvious conflict forfeits his immunity.

"It's not locked," he whispers after several moments. "Don't be seen." More loudly, he says, "Oh, you needn't be so apologetic. Stuff comes up — I know how it is. Sure I can wait a couple of hours. I mean, it _is_ my home. For a moment there, I thought you were going to reschedule till next year or something," with a laugh.

"Thank you," I tell him quietly as I find the right door and double-check for witnesses before slipping inside and locking it silently behind me.

"All right, I'll see you tomorrow then," I hear him both on the phone and upstairs. "Thank you for letting me know. Bye!" He hangs up, and I hear the studio door open. "Sorry about that. Just another customer calling to reschedule their appointment. Let's continue."

Once the door clicks shut, I quietly climb the hidden set of stairs — behind a door labelled "Storage," it goes only to his apartment while the other set goes to his shop and studio as well. I am light-headed when I reach the top, but manage to fetch a towel from his bathroom before collapsing upon his futon with it under the wound in my shoulder.

It would be ungracious to make a mess.

-INDELIBLE-

"Yamato. Yamato!"

I crack an eye open as my cheek is tapped insistently. I regret it — my head feels groggy, the rest of my body numb.

"Oh Gods," Hibiki gasps, hands cupping my cheeks, and despite the discomfort, I am glad to see him. "I— You— Why didn't you tell me?!" There is such relief on his tear-streaked face. "Listen, I'm going to call an ambulance, get you to the hospital, okay? Just… just hang in there."

I try to reach for him as he fumbles for a phone. "No ambulance…" That's too dangerous for us all.

But the effort is too much, and I'm sinking back into cool darkness before he can respond.

-INDELIBLE-

A steady beep and hum wakes me, and I frown at the machinery around the bed. Surely he didn't…

"Sir, I am relieved to see you are awake." It's Sako, and it looks like she has been standing guard for some time.

"And I that you escaped as well." It would be a shame to lose talented personnel — they are difficult to replace.

"T—Thank you, Sir!" She blushes and quickly bows to hide it — I think she has misunderstood my concern. "I—I will inform your family that you have regained consciousness. Please excuse me."

As she exits the ward, I glimpse more guards outside — this hospital is one of ours. Hibiki must have called our group to have these arrangements made. He's intelligent, after all. I hope this turn of events has not greatly inconvenienced him. Doctor Yanagiya comes in to inform me that I will likely have problems using my left arm after this — although the bullet missed the really major arteries, it damaged the bones and nerves. If I recover well, my left arm will regain functionality, but it will likely never be the same again.

It feels like I blink, and then I'm jerking awake as people burst through the door. It's my family, of course. Mother is distraught while Father is quietly furious at my report and Sako's. I am informed that Hibiki used my phone to call my father for help and that my twin was dressed as my body double to be seen being extracted in the area as a decoy while others picked me up. The vixen is teasing me for being a damsel in distress, needing Sako and Hibiki to rescue me. I am too exhausted to be annoyed and fall back asleep before they have even left.

The next time I wake, it is to the comforting scent of sweet woods and fresh citrus, to a familiar hand holding my own. Hibiki smiles when I lace our fingers and turn to him.

"Hey, you're looking better. You shouldn't get any paler. Marble-like skin isn't as attractive as it's made out to be."

Chuckling, I tell him, "Fortunately, it was the left shoulder. It would be a shame to ruin your work."

He huffs a laugh, reaching into a bag beside him. "Well, it certainly is harder to fix one than to make a new one." He brings out a paper box, and it smells delicious. "And I'm told this is against hospital regulations, but…" He opens it and puts the pair of bamboo chopsticks beside the takoyaki. "We don't really care, do we?"

I pull him close before taking it. "No, I suppose we don't."

The kiss is slow, like he's savouring it, like it's something momentous. And when we part, he seems to have something to say, but settles for, "It's getting cold," as he feeds me one. "How goes your learning process?"

He snags one, and I glare briefly at him. "Hmph. I'll perfect it next time." The first batch was good, but a few adjustments will make it the best. Then again, I doubt I'll be able to flip the balls after this.

"Yeah? When will I get to try it?"

Shelving my worries, I roll my eyes. "As soon as I get out of here." Speaking of which, "Did you get into any trouble?"

"Ah, well, as it turns out, my customer that night is a branch head of the group that was chasing you. We were just done with his sitting when his subordinates showed up, banging on my shutters to ask if you'd been by. He was mortified by the commotion they were causing at one in the morning, especially when they admitted that no one had actually seen you come in, and they were just asking because you were headed that way, knowing you are a customer because they'd seen you come for sessions before. Too scandalized to even question me, he scolded them for behaving like common thugs, fiercely chased them off, apologised profusely for their rudeness and made them bring me and my immediate neighbours gift baskets in the morning to make up for the disturbance."

"I am… glad to hear it." Having devoured the snack, I set the chopsticks down. "Thank you for letting me in. I owe you my life. I shall repay you somehow."

"Is that what you think?" His voice drops to a whisper as he tosses the box back into the bag. "That you have to repay me?" He smacks my thigh. "Why didn't you tell me you'd been shot?! I was really scared. I thought you were dead!"

I sigh. "If they found out you knowingly sheltered and helped me, you would no longer be safe."

"And that's somehow more important than your life?!" He chokes, and I turn to find him crying again, just like that night. "What if every second counted? What if you'd bled out on my floor while I finished that guy's sitting?"

"My apologies, Hibiki." I see now that my actions hurt him deeply. "I wanted to protect you."

He throws his arms around me, burying his face in my chest. "I was so afraid I'd lost you. Don't do that again."

Carding my fingers through his hair, I tell him, "All right."

Turning his face to meet my gaze, he says, "I love you," and I… don't know whether the feeling is mutual. I don't know how to tell. I enjoy our time together very much, but I don't know if that is love, and I have no wish to answer him lightly.

So instead I tell him, "You know I… am obligated to marry and produce heirs for my family."

"I know. But I'd rather be jealous than not have you at all."

"And… I might lose my left arm." In the worst case scenario, I will have trouble moving it at all.

Hibiki scoffs. "How is that relevant? Besides, what are you complaining about? You're not left-handed, and your arm's still there. It's a lot better than missing a few fingers."

Laughing, I chide, "That's rather rude," but the sentiment is charming all the same.

"Get well soon…?"

"That is certainly the plan."

He leans close to peck me on the cheek and whisper, "I can't wait for you to come inside me."

I close my eyes and swallow to moisten my throat. "You are the worst."

"You don't want to?" His teasing voice ghosts over my skin, soft lips hovering close.

I merely turn into the kiss in response.

-INDELIBLE-

I visit Hibiki shortly after I am discharged. I still cannot move my arm, but I have been in the hospital for far too long. My parents insist I bring more gifts —sweets, wines, health foods and art— as thanks, and I am happy to comply. He is gracious as my subordinates bring the items in, affectionate once they leave us.

"Recently, I started working on a new client," he says conversationally, leading me upstairs as usual. "I can't tell you who he is, of course, but he's really attractive. It's a shame he doesn't enjoy the process as much as you do."

"Are you saying you would take him as a lover if he did?"

"Hmm…" He looks pensive, and I want to rip that thought out his head. "Oh, your sister came by a few times, by the way," he adds. "She's thinking of getting one done too."

How annoying — she's never shown any interest before.

"You should've told me you had a twin." He lets me into the studio. "She looks just like you! Maybe I should marry her."

"What?!"

He cracks up. "Then we could live together in the same mansion even when you've married someone else, right?"

"I— That's depraved. Wait, don't change the subject."

"Hah…" He looks down. "I'm sorry. That was mean."

"Mean?" There are more suitable words I could think of.

"Yeah." He steps closer. "It was wrong of me to lie just to see if you'd be jealous." Chuckling, he wraps his arms around my waist. "You should see your face. But I'm really happy."

After some thought, I think I understand. "If I'm jealous, that means I love you?"

"Maybe?" Hibiki laughs, pressing his lips to my cheek. "The odds are in my favour? The only thing it definitively proves is that you're very possessive though."

It's true; I don't deny it. I pull him close in a tight grip, give him a threatening glare. "So you won't have anyone else?"

Giggling, he tangles his hands in my hair, careful to avoid the sling I'm wearing. "Don't be silly. I can't get it up for anyone else. Last week, my best friend, Daichi, lent me the latest installment of our favourite porn series, and it didn't do anything for me." He kisses me tenderly. "You've ruined me."

"Good. Do you still want to marry Miyako?"

He snorts. "Does she want to marry me? It was a joke."

"What a shame. I rather liked the idea of us living in the same mansion, sneaking in the occasional interlude."

"Oh, and you say I'm depraved." He unfastens my pants, guiding me to the futon. "You know, I've been thinking…"

"I certainly hope so."

He flicks his fingers sharply at my hip before helping me out of my clothes and laying me down. "I want to draw a white tiger here." His hand caresses my right inner thigh, and I'm aroused by the mere thought — a mark of possession.

"Yes…"

This isn't the first. In his colouring of my back piece, a close look would pick out a character formed by the leaves and flowers of the peach tree and the coiling body of the dragon around its trunk. Some posit that he has a numbering system — mine is, perhaps, the third of its kind. Others suggest that, since many of the character's meanings involve movement, it could signify a wish that my life will never stagnate. But I know his intended meaning now — to be madly in love.

All along, Hibiki has inked his love into my skin — for all to see, indelible.

I wish I could give him more.

"I've missed you," he murmurs, taking me into his mouth, and I moan his name — I feel the same.

"I'll find it," I promise him, and he pulls off, looking up, puzzled. "I'll find a way for us to always be together. If I must change the world, I shall."

The smile that breaks on his face is dazzling. "I know you will, Yamato. I believe in you."

And those four words are all the strength I need.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed this story. This is my first time writing from Yamato's perspective, and it has not been beta read.

Please let me know what you think or if you spot any mistakes. I'll get back to my other fic now.


End file.
